


Between Pranks and Passion

by witchkings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Shenanigans, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: Two days before the grand opening and things are in a state.A Fred and George drabble.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/George Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	Between Pranks and Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 06/09/2020: I did some line edits and rewriting bc I wasn't too happy with some of the expressions. Enjoy :)

“Oi, Fred,” George called out, wiping his cobweb-sticky hands on his pants. He peeked over the stacks of boxes that surrounded him which was difficult as his foot was jammed under a barrel of Amortentia and his eyes were bleary with dust. They had enchanted two dozen lanterns to hover near the ceiling of their storage room, but somehow the space swallowed up light like Dobby collected clothing. With fervor. “Where have we put the Fever Fudge?” 

Fred, buried in another valley of cardboard and inventory, did not reply. 

“Merlin,” George cursed and grabbed for his wand. “Lumos.” His hand raised over his head, George climbed out his prison of boxes and back onto the main corridor they had carved down the room to gain some semblance of control. He cast around for his twin, a foot, a tuft of red hair, but to no avail. Either Fred had left the room without giving notice, or he was being an annoying arse. George knew which one was likelier. 

“Look, I’m not in the mood, we’re miles behind. Can you just tell me where you’ve put it?” George stopped, and rubbed his forehead where a headache had nagged away at his sanity ever since his morning coffee which had been spiked with something neither of them had been able to identify. They had no clean dishes left and no time to collect the dirty ones and Scourgify them. Not with opening this close.

Two days. They had two days left and to say things were in disarray, was an understatement. Their storage was filled to the brim with items for sale, not to mention their bedroom at the Burrow where their failed experiments rested, and the shop itself was in chaos. Shelves half-installed, bowls of Even More Flavors Bertie Bott’s overturned, empty mugs all over the place. Things had been under control until Fred had grabbed George by the front of his shirt in the middle of setting up the cash register, and had kissed him raw. Full of tongue and incoherent murmurs, hands everywhere. Aching for more. And of course, George had let him. Had cupped Fred’s face with equal measures of desperation and giddiness because nothing triumphed Fred kissing him, not even opening a joke shop.

So what if they had wasted an afternoon fooling around? What if they had made a mess of things and had set themselves back a week of work? At the time, George had deemed it worth it. Now? He wasn’t so sure.

“Fred, stop being a cock.” 

Silence.

And then, a faint whimper from the right. George held his wand out in front of him, ready to shield himself if this was a trap, and rounded a stack of chessboards. They had been modified to punish the players for losing pieces. Truth be told, they still hadn’t found out all the punishments and George kept finding bits of blue paint in his nose and ears. 

Behind the stack, his shoulders wedged between extra units of shelves, lay Fred. On his back, wide-eyed with panic. Thick ropes had coiled around his body, rendering him immobile. A piece of tape covered his mouth. He whimpered again.

George snorted, a grin curling his lips. 

“This is grand,” he said. “You should see yourself.” Fred squirmed and that had the laughter burst from George’s lips. He doubled over, clutching his stomach. Howling. This was just too much. A week of alternately unpacking and magicking, having sex and apparating to the Burrow because they couldn’t be bothered to cook, and now this. Fred had gotten himself tied up, and by one of his own inventions too. 

Between fits of hysteria, no doubt fueled by too little sleep, George seriously considered leaving him there to carry on on his own. Would be more productive at any rate. He turned away, but Fred thrashed and squealed. The spear would wear off. Eventually. 

George put his hands on his hips. 

“I did tell you to get rid of that stuff last week. Am I surprised? Of course not. You never do the responsible thing, do you? Merlin, what am I going to do with you.” Fred stopped moving, but his eyes remained wild. They loved each other, but that didn’t mean they trusted each other. Not when they had been born with hearts full of mischief and lips quick to curl in mockery. 

The opportunities here were endless. But in the end, George reverted to the predictable. No matter how annoyed he was with his twin, no matter how badly he wanted to teach him a lesson, his body would always be tugged in one direction. Like a current he couldn’t escape. He grinned and knelt down, Fred’s thighs between his. Leaned forward, one hand splayed over Fred’s tied chest and tapped the tape with his wand. It dissolved.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Fred gasped, glaring. “Have you any idea how long I’ve been like this?”

“Not the faintest.”

“An eternity. Thought I’d die down here, choke on dust or be assaulted by the chessboards. Come on, dispel the ropes and I’ll show you where I’ve put the Fever Fudge.” Fred batted his eyelashes. His hair was deliciously messed up from his tumble, and his cheeks flushed scarlet as George lowered himself until there was barely an inch between them.

“I’d rather not,” George said and eased into the fire that burned under his skin, the turmoil in his chest. A distant voice told him to stop with the shenanigans and get back to work. He’d be upset with himself again. But that voice was easily drowned out by the thundering of his heartbeat. Or was it Fred’s? It was hard to tell sometimes.

“Georgie,” Fred pleaded, and looked as though he had no idea for what exactly. Freedom? A kiss? Mercy? There was a tremor in his voice. 

“I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must be, tied up like this on the cold floor.”

“You really can’t,” Fred said though he meant: it’s not so bad now you’re on top of me. George could read it in his twin’s lingering blush. It was always like this with them, a dangerous dance on the line between pranks and passion. They made themselves unpredictable, even with each other, which made it fun.

I could kiss you, he thought and his throat constricted with the urge, or I could hex your face green for the next week.

Please go for kissing, Fred thought, his hand wriggling under the ropes, under George’s hip, to reach something, anything.

George closed his eyes and dipped lower, pressing his lips to the corner of Fred’s mouth, barely more than an echo of a promise. Fred hadn’t the time to react before George was on his feet and had dispelled the trap. 

“Oh,” Fred said, and let himself be pulled up, right into George’s arms. “Thanks.”

“What? Did you think I was going to leave you there?” George chuckled and hummed in pleasure as Fred awkwardly wrapped his arms around his neck. They were still stiff from the pressure. Their foreheads fell together.

“You were going to leave me there. Git.” Fred grinned and George could think of a hundred things he was going to do to Fred. All of them delicious and brave and costing too much time.

“Hey! Be careful or I’ll hex you again.”

“You called me a cock earlier so I think we’re even,” Fred retorted.

“Well, there was this one time-” Fred kissed him silent. And then again. And then they crashed into each other, full of want and wonder and if they tumbled into the chess sets and put themselves behind schedule (again) no one was any the wiser for it. They made opening day just fine, with matching scarves to cover the aftermath. 


End file.
